


Tomorrow

by Fiorenza_a



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Dark, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2014-01-12
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiorenza_a/pseuds/Fiorenza_a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya woke slowly, painfully. His limbs were heavy and he ached. A story of darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow

Illya woke slowly, painfully. His limbs were heavy and he ached. He ached everywhere. A dull monotonous pain with no beginning and no end. No centre and no borders. A grey, shapeless cloud of pain. Fogging his brain and blunting his senses.

Then fingers, a hand brushing lightly against his thigh. Skin on skin and he understood that he was without clothes. It was strange that he had not known this until now but he accepted the omission. He had no strength to do anything else.

''You are beautiful'' said a voice and he understood that a man watched him. 

The man came to lie beside him and he came to know he lay on satin sheets. A large, luxurious bed in ornate surroundings. Clear soft lighting illuminating everything with subtle tones of peach.

The man ran his hands through Illya's hair. ''You are my prize and I shall claim you'' the voice whispered in his ear. ''Are you ready to be claimed?''

Illya could not speak. He found he had forgotten how to form the words but tears slipped from his eyes and slid down his face. ''Yes I think now you are ready'' the voice said as the fingers stroked ceaselessly through his hair. ''I did not wish to bind you, perhaps later, but not yet. I cannot leave you unfettered, you are too dangerous. The drug will hold you and I will have you.''

Illya felt his legs being moved as the man came to lie between them. ''This is what I want'' the man told him and he felt hands on him, exploring him. Finding where he could be entered. ''Am I your first?'' the man asked. Illya shut his eyes so that they would not betray him and the man understood. ''Yes, your first. A privilege. Your gift to me.''               

Illya felt the man slick and unrelenting against him. And then mercilessly forcing into him. Moving in him. Slowly at first. Then without care. Using him. Taking pleasure in him. Coming in him.

Spent and breathless the man left him. ''You came to me a virgin my beautiful prize, but you will leave me a slut.''

The man slept. His breathing sounding in Illya's ears as Illya lay imprisoned in his own body. When the man awoke he claimed his prize again, negligent of anything but his own pleasure. 

Illya at first counted the violations but in the end came to understand that it was important to no one but himself and counted no more.

The man now sometimes watched as others violated him, a prelude to his own lustful and ungentle attentions.

In the uncertain passing of time Illya slowly felt sensation returning to his limbs. The man chained him before he could insist the limbs obey him. Strong fine chains that held him but did not mar the elegance of the room.

He fought now against the man and the men he watched. His fighting did not free him. It added spice to their pleasure and did not stop them.

But the men paid. They paid in blood. And he was freed. Napoleon freed him.

Napoleon took him away from the satin sheets and peach lighting.

Napoleon took him to starched sheets and harsh lighting and afterwards to a tranquil retreat where they were unknown and could be safe.

Napoleon watched daily as his partner explored the confines of his new prison. Silent and withdrawn. 

He coaxed him with food, but Illya would not eat. Illya drank. More than he had before, more than was good for him, more than Napoleon could bear. 

Illya did not talk. His eyes filled sometimes with large soft tears which overflowed his lashes and fell in silence, but he did not talk. Napoleon held him when this happened and asked for nothing and could offer nothing.

Illya was crying now. Noiselessly. Glass in hand, staring out of the window. The warm stillness of the night meeting his gaze with tender oblivion. Napoleon moved to take him in his arms. To hold the broken remains of his partner together until his partner found the strength to do it for himself.

And at last Illya spoke, whispering in a voice ruined by alcohol and silence ''Will you do what they did Napoleon?''

Napoleon did not understand.

''I want you to do what they did Napoleon. I want it to be you.''

And still Napoleon did not understand.

''I don't want the last man to have been in me to be an enemy, I want him to be a friend. I want him to be you.''

''Illya I can't. I don't. You don't know what you're saying. This isn't what you want.''

''Yes it is Napoleon. I know what I want. I am certain.''

''Illya I know you believe that, but this isn't what you want. These days will pass and you will get well and when you are, you will be glad I didn't do this. You won't even want to remember you asked. You're my partner, how can you think I wouldn't protect you?''

Illya was silent once more. Large, tear filled blue eyes regarded him with depthless sadness and understanding and Napoleon felt relieved that he had, once again, saved his partner. 

Napoleon sat with Illya until Illya seemed to have found some form of peace. Illya would not sleep, he knew that. Illya drank now instead, passing out whenever the alcohol allowed him respite and waking again to seek the same solace.

But Napoleon could sleep now. Now he had found his partner and had him safe. He needed to sleep now. He needed to stay strong for his partner. His partner needed him. So he left Illya to find sleep.

He awoke with a start. He hadn't heard the shot. It was unimportant that he should, years of field trained instincts had him awake without hearing it, but it was fear that had him out of bed and looking for his partner. 

He found Illya's neat frame slumped in his chair in the corner of their balcony. Under the dark jacket of his suit the pristine white of his shirt was marred by a single red stain. Illya had shot himself in the heart. He hadn't missed. Illya was too good for that.

Napoleon understood.

Illya had asked for what he needed tonight. It did not matter that he would need something else tomorrow because there was never going to be a tomorrow. Tomorrow belonged to a future he no longer claimed as his. Years he no longer sought to see. Napoleon had refused his wish and not seen his need. Failing him at the last.

There was an envelope in the top pocket of Illya's jacket. Napoleon knew without looking that it was addressed to him, but he did not need to read it. He already knew what it said. 

Illya forgave him.

 

END


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